My Gentleman

Despite blasting horns
and the roar of motors
I choose not to run down
the old man crossing
ever so slowly
in front of me.
Over-sized pants
worn jacket
shoes without laces.
But an arresting face
of sharp bones and narrow eyes.
Unfazed by the crazies
he holds his pace
until he reaches the curb
where, in slow motion
he turns and doffs his cap to me.
This graceful gesture from a diffeent time
lifts my spirit
removes me from the rabble of the street

Bridget Harwell

Away

I've lived too long
with velvet lawns
tidy trees
citizens.
I want to walk
in a wild wood
crunch winter leaves
see spring,
untended
by human hands,
peek out
from crevices
splash
purple patches
coo
baby greens.

Bridget Harwell

On Her Way

"Martha Stone.
That's a strong name
for a little-bitty thing like you."
The stout woman checked the card
pinned on her gown.
"You need something sweet, like Daisy.
All my ladies are flowers.
Rose and Bluebell
Dandelion
and now we have a Daisy."
A spark within flickered
but only for a moment.
Losing her name was the least of her losses.
A shy woman
she minded more having to be bathed
...as if such things still mattered.

The flower woman hummed
as she helped her off with her gown
and into the tub.
She had forgotten the feel of strong hands
lifting an arm
caressing her face
the taste of soap upon her lips.
Water cascaded over her head
rippled down her shoulders
dripped from her fingertips.
As if she were a child of God
named Daisy
and this a second baptism
readying her for the place of peace

Bridget Harwell